


You See, But You Do Not Observe

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Bonding, Brothers, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 07:53:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9312377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: A shot in the dark--a blow of optimism against jossing. In spite of fears, I am going to believe a) that Mycroft will survive this next episode, and b) that Sherlock will still fail to understand much about his brother. Until he finally observes.





	

He had the trick of breaking into Mycroft's flat down cold, now. There were choices to be made--wrap the smartphone in a cloaking mask to keep out trackers, for instance (and God bless the Danes for that inventive little gift...). Take the time to look for new alarms. Triple check who's doing onsite surveillance, and stay pessimistic: there's always another one somewhere, like a flea on a terrier. But he did have the skills--he could do it. Thus he was now ensconced in his brother's flat, opposite the Diogenes, lurking in his brother's favorite chair, in the darkest shadows of his sitting room with an old gunslinger's near-total view of the place. That was Mycroft--wary, cautious, dangerous. The man sitting in the chair with the view of all the doors and windows. The chair in the shadow no one could see into--the chair under the near-laser-bright narrow focus light that lit the face of anyone coming in, while making all the dark below invisible. Impenetrable.

There was a gleeful, malicious joy to it--turning the tables, using Mycroft's constant devious manipulation against him. He'd be off-guard, unprepared, trusting his many layers of protection to keep that chair secure for him, only him. He'd never notice his baby brother had ghosted through his security precautions, into his flat, inside his circles of privacy, landing in the chair. Swirling a large snifter of brandy, Sherock smirked, sure his brother would not even notice that glorious liquor perfuming the air. 

In his own evaluation his life was too difficult; his joys too few, his successes too thin-spread and erratic. He was entitled to such pleasure as could be gained by taking Mycroft by surprise, rubbing in the failure--failure as an espionage professional. Failure as "the smart one." Failure. It was unadorned joy to turn the tables and glory in being the victor, successful, sanctimonious Mycroft the duped prat.

So he held silent when the digital lock clicked to "open," the doorknob rattled and turned, and Mycroft came in, front-lit by the stream of light that passed over Sherlock's head; back-lit by the light from the corridor behind him.

Such an idiot, Sherlock thought, dismissively. Look at him--long nose, frog mouth, increasingly bald head. He moved like what he really was--a sedentary, aging administrator. His briefcase hung heavy in his hand, the shaft of his umbrella clutched tight against the handle. His head ducked down to avoid the glare of the little bright light. He heeled the door shut behind him...ducked enough to show the deep coves of skin pushing back at his temples, and the first sliver of shining pate at the crown...

"You're growing old, big brother," Sherlock thought, not for a second thinking about the corollary truth--that so, too, was he.

His suit was the worse for the day's wear--no longer crisp and sharp-pressed, but softened, slightly mashed, just that little bit off of perfection. He'd had his pocket square out sometime during the day, and had put it back less precisely than it would have originally been set. His tie was loosened just a tad. His collar was open a single button. His tie bar slightly askew from all the adjustments the other details implied.

"Hard day at the office, brother-mine? Try recovering from double kidney failure...but oh, no. I forget. You wouldn't be living the sort of life that knocks them to bits, between the drugs, the malnutrition, or the kicks." The thoughts were sulky--but, then, Sherlock was grumpy. He was waiting for the perfect moment to strike, the point when his brother would approach the chair, unsuspecting, blind, oblivious.

Would he shout "boo" at Mycroft, like a ghost? (Mary wouldn't approve, his inner voice said, and he could see her drifting across his inner eye, frowning at him for coming short of her ideals... He scowled at her in his own mind, and returned to the plans to startle Mycroft. Maybe not "boo." Maybe just "surprise!" Then watch Mike fall apart...)

His brother veered right, moving on automatic. He dropped his briefcase by the steel-rod shelving, propped his umbrella up against the cabinets. He walked into the kitchen, stretching and sighing, popping kinks out of his long spine, passing out of Sherlock's line of vision. The lights rose in the kitchen as he opened the fridge door. He sighed again, and closed the door, with the distinctive sound of the slight seal resuming. A moment later Sherlock heard him phone in an order to a restaurant--a Thai place. He ordered a salad, pad thai, and a pint of tom khah gai.

Then he came back out, turned toward the chair, walked into the room two paces...

And stopped, facing the windows and the lights of London, face and body lit by the eerie, greenish narrow-beam and the silver-blue of the city itself. It was unkind lighting--more cruel than Sherlock's viper tongue. His eyes were tired and baggy, his face drawn. He shucked his jacket off, then stood with his hands on his hips, fingers of one hand curving slightly to hold the collar of the jacket. 

Sherlock began to set up the next cascade of biting internal observations, when Mary whispered, "Don't look--SEE!" Then she stood, arms crossed, and frowned at him.

He scowled.

Blah-blah Mycroft. Blah-blah workaholic. Blah-blah, alone. 

Alone.

Tired.

There was a sense of defeat and weariness in the set of his shoulders. Of sorrow in his drawn face. Of patient courage, like--

What? 

"Like what?" he asked his inner Mary.

"Think about it, you looby," she scolded.

He looked, forcing observations, real observations. The eternal effort put into clothes that day by day needed to be renewed and refreshed. The refrigerator empty of anything he wanted to eat, or perhaps had the energy to prepare. The work brought home--the briefcase was heavy. The mind not still--look at his face, at his hands on his hips, at his stance, so tired but standing in spite of it, a lonely watchman standing his watch, waiting for it to end. With Mycroft, though, the only end would be death, as likely as not. He'd die in harness...

Oh.

Like Sherlock, then. Like John. Someone choosing not to die until death took him--but someone ready for it when it came.

The points flashed harder, the little mental notes ticked off in Sherlock's brain. Alone. Tired, Lonely. Faithful. Weary. Sorrowing. Waiting. He'd stand his life-watch--and leave willingly, past hope of anything but having done his job well.

"Fuck" he snarled at Mary, furious. "Why did you make me see it? Why did you make me see him this way?"

Her glance told him all he needed to know. Mary, wicked, sweet Mary, would always try for the surgical shot that promised life, if she could find a way to life at all. This was his inner Mary--his version of her ghost. He wondered if she was saving him, or Mycroft, or both.

Mycroft stretched again, slowly, carefully, twisting and shifting and setting off cascades of pops, with one mighty one worked free from between his shoulders only with cautious effort.

Sherlock grinned, grim and set in his choice, now.

"I can pour you a scotch and then help work the knots out of your shoulders, if you like, brother-mine."

Mycroft leaped like a cat assaulted by a vicious puppy-dog, provoking laughter Sherlock could not contain. He stepped, scrambled, spun--and glared into the dark shadows, unable to see past the glare.

"Sherlock?!" He sounded like an insulted elephant, all trumpeting affront. "What are you doing there? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Sherlock drawled, and rose. He stepped forward and plucked the jacket from the floor. "Can I drape this over a chair-back, or must it go into the airing room to smooth out?"

Mycroft blinked, frowned, and said, "Chair back will do. It goes to the dry cleaner tomorrow. What are you doing here if nothing's wrong?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Nothing was right, either, tonight, so I thought I'd amuse myself breaking in. Do you think there's time to double that dinner order before they ship it?"

Mycroft arched a well tended eyebrown, took out his own smartphone, and called. Once done he said, "Apparently there was enough time." His tight grin turned it into a tease in return, tweaking Sherlock's nose with the obvious.

"Well. There's one thing right," Sherlock said, all false chipper bounce. He looked at Mycroft and spun his finger in the air. "Turn."

Mycroft turned, and Sherlock came close, long fingers closing over the high muscle of Mycroft's shoulder and neck line. He tightened cautiously, heard Mycroft's gasp--at being touched, or at the pressure on tired muscles Sherlock was unsure. Further testing was obviously needed. He worked the stiff muscles, provoked more sighs, and even a slight whimper. He was careful, easing out the weary tension, stroking the knots away, then slowly working to long, smooth caresses, relaxing, gentle.

"Why?" The whisper was almost inaudible.

Sherlock gripped the points of his brother's shoulders, leaned his face against the back of his head. "Because I finally understood what I had been observing...brother-mine."

Mycroft asked no more...probably too terrified it would all disappear and he'd find it had been a dream. 

Sherlock smiled to himself, content in this fragile near-embrace. He and Mycroft, as they had always been--together. Alike...

Cherished.

"That's my boy," Mary murmured, smiling. "Give it a few more minutes, then scotch, then dinner and decent music."

"What else, pushy woman?" he asked her.

"Oh, that's enough to be getting on with," she said with a smile, and left them alone together in the silver light of London.

 


End file.
